


War Drums

by Cardinal_Daughter



Category: Dragon Ball, Dragon Ball Z
Genre: Aftercare, Angst, BDSM, Blood Kink, Communication, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Consensual Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Face Slapping, Heavy BDSM, Romance, Rough Sex, Safe Sane and Consensual, Violent Sex, well probably more likely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-11 18:41:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13530273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cardinal_Daughter/pseuds/Cardinal_Daughter
Summary: He can't count the times he's left because he feels the urge to destroy the closest thing to him- her. He nods.She shocks him to his core when she lifts his hand in her smaller one and places it at the base of her throat.“Then hurt me.”Bulma helps Vegeta battle his demons through unconventional means.





	War Drums

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my God, where do I even start? So this is... a thing...that happened. 
> 
> *TRIGGER WARNINGS*: Rough sex, slapping, derogatory speech, blood, sex that is consensual but they act as if if isn't (not sure how else to describe that), BDSM, violent sex... I don't even know at this point. What have I become? 
> 
> So basically I wanted to explore a side of Vegeta that was him like, battling this thing in him that I imagine is an ingrained, biological need to fight and hurt and destroy. Saiyans were bred for that shit. And just because he's on Earth and has a family now doesn't change eons of evolution. So. Rough sex. Because. 
> 
> Everything in this story is consensual. The acts are discussed and agreed upon. Concern is treated respectfully and resolved, and safe words are respected. This story is as much Bulma and Vegeta learning to talk to one another as it is about Vegeta and Bulma having some pretty rough and violent sex. 
> 
> Sex should ALWAYS be consensual. And if your partner doesn't take your concerns or wishes seriously, then they don't need to be having sex. Whether it's BDSM or plain ol' missionary or whatever, talk it through and make sure everyone is on the same page, 'kay? This has been a PSA from your fandom mom. 
> 
> I hope I did this justice. I hope you enjoy it. Apologies for any errors. Apologies for this entire thing. 
> 
> I don't own DBZ. I'm sure after this, Toriyama wouldn't let me have it anyway.

 

 

 

 

  **War Drums**

 

He is born to a race of warriors. Cold-blooded, ruthless, undefeatable. His hands are trained to break, to destroy, to crumble those around him like dirt between his fingers. His hands are covered in blood; his kingdom lies on a foundation of bodies strewn across a red-soaked battlefield, and his crown is made of the bones of his enemies.

But then he falls from his place on high and lands on Earth. Earth, with it’s blue sky and weak denizens, the graveyard in which he buries his pride and his dignity and his hope.

But time passes, and Vegeta trades death for life; he trades the call of violence for the cries of his son, and he trades the destruction in which he once sought for quiet evenings spent sleeping next to his queen for whom he has no kingdom to offer. But the battle cry of his people still lingers, calling to him in the distance, and nothing can drown out the sound. His blood thrums with the memory of battle, and punching training bots does little to satisfy the itching, tingling, all-consuming need to _fight_. But this is his life now, and he makes the best of it.

And then, almost as quickly as he'd fallen, he’s offered a chance to redeem himself; to resurrect his long dead pride and dignity and power; and not only does he take it, he relishes it. He hears the ancient sound of war drums in his mind, in time with the tempo of his heart, and for the first time in seven years he feels like himself again. He feels like the Saiyan he is, and the power that flows through him is more addicting, more pleasurable, than any sensation he has ever known. Power and glory are synonymous with his name, and he laughs as dust and death swirl around the aftermath of his vengeance.

In the pit of his heart, the place he keeps under lock and key, he feels a hollow sort of satisfaction that leaves him just as empty as before, though he cannot place why.

Then he sees her, his Queen, and suddenly the power feels too heavy upon his shoulders, and the pain he long thought vanquished returns anew, taking a new shape as it grips and squeezes. _All this power, but nothing is given for free._

No price is given for his restored Saiyan heritage. But he sees the cost through hazy, bloodlust-tinged eyes and he knows that his days of taking without repercussion are over. It was over the moment he allowed himself to care for another.

So he does what he's learned the hero does: he makes a sacrifice too great and terrible to truly be any good. And in the end, it is no good and he exists in an abyss where his own personal hell is the simple reminder that no matter what he's done in his life, it's never been quite enough.

But then he's freed from that hell, though it still clings to him like the dirt and grime from the battle; like the blood of every soul he's ever destroyed. He's back from beyond, a second (Third? Fourth? Fifth?) chance at life. Kakarot is restored as well, and he takes his new lease on life with the same enthusiasm that he approaches everything.

Kakarot embraces his family with the same familiar ease as if he's only been on a brief trip away from home when it couldn't be further from the truth. He watches the half-Saiyan offspring of his rival embrace the human girl he's been mooning over as she beats his chest and curses him for making her worry. He watches as even Krillin, the weak, cowardly monk, as he embraces his wife and daughter. His wife: a once sworn enemy who has found contentment away from the battlefield despite being designed specifically for destruction and decay. He hates how similar he is to her, how his DNA runs red with a millennia of warriors calling to him to _fight_ while she has wires and cogs and data that can be so easily manipulated to suit the whim of whoever has control of her.

Except now she has control of herself, and when he watches the android smile lovingly at her short, weaker husband, he wonders why he can't just as easily flip a switch and make the blood that sings of violence and destruction just _stop._

He has the desire to hurt. It's always been there, and it's never left. Moments- minutes, hours, days?- ago, he gave into that desire, lifted it in exaltation as he wreaked havoc upon the planet he's called home for over a decade now.

He blinks. Has it really been that long?

His thoughts are interrupted when Bulma approaches, Trunks in tow. The boy smiles up at his father, admiration shining in his blue eyes. He sees something that Vegeta cannot see; the boy has lived a sheltered, privileged life, and does not know what it means to be a true Saiyan, even as the boy’s mother has been diligent to teach him all she can of his heritage.

Sometimes, Vegeta envies the boy.

Trunks chatters happily about going home and Vegeta nods, then looks to Bulma, who is watching her son. She's yet to say a word, yet to acknowledge him. She agrees that it's time to go and the boy flies off with a hop and a shout. Only when he's gone from the lookout does Bulma acknowledge him.

“I need a lift.”

He nods and takes her into his arms. Then they're in the air, speeding behind Trunks. She clings to him, and if Vegeta hadn't been in this position a dozen times before, he'd think her afraid. But Bulma fears nothing, not even the drop to the earth below them. She's always been secure in his arms and so he cannot place why her grip clings tighter than before.

They arrive home and Bulma's mother greets them with her usual chipperness. Bulma heads straight upstairs to look after her son, and Vegeta waits until he can sense the boy’s ki lower and steady- signaling he's asleep. Only then does Vegeta make his way to the room he's shared with Bulma for years, and he can only imagine the sort of rage he’ll face.

In any other circumstance, he'd fight back. Shout and yell and threaten with the same ferocity as if he were fighting a physical battle, but tonight he is tired.

No, not tired. Weary.

Despite it all; despite looking around him and seeing how far he's fallen from his legacy, he's now fallen further, trapped in a pit of self-loathing and despair- the same self-loathing and despair that tempted him to take the power offered to him at the tournament. And despite it all, despite choosing his family over it in the end, he _still_ hears that siren song in the recesses of his mind, calling incessantly to him, whispering, _why did you give me up?_

He reaches the room and enters without a knock. He expects to come face to face with a raging Bulma, but she is silent, looking out the window.

Her arms are wrapped around herself like a makeshift shield and Vegeta wonders why it hurts so much to see her try to protect herself from him.

He waits, with more patience than he really has, for her to turn and begin shouting. She never does. She stands, breathing shaky but steady, as she stares out at the city lights on the other side of the glass. It's agonizing, and he's not even sure if she's aware of the cruelty of making him wait. She's not acknowledged him, and it's a slap in the face.

Finally, she turns. Her cheeks are red from crying and he can see fresh streaks. She's been composing herself.

The guilt mixes with the pain and heartache and longing, making a deadly concoction Vegeta nearly chokes upon swallowing.

She steps forward to where he's standing next to the bed. She sits, looking down, and sighs. Then she looks up, and with a pained expression that guts him, asks,  “What did I do wrong?”

He stares, then sits next to her, knees touching. “What?”

She removes one hand to wipe her eyes. “You chose… That,” she says, waving her hand beside her, “Power. Or whatever it was. And I can’t help but feel that it’s because of something I did. Or didn’t do. I just want to know what made you desire _that_ more than-”

More than her. More than their son.

Never one for affection, Vegeta surprises them both when he catches her hand in his and presses her knuckles to his lips. “You've done nothing wrong,” he says, and it's true. If anything, she's done everything right, and he understands how that makes the wound he's caused sting all the more.

“Then, I don't understand…”

Bulma, Vegeta knows, likes to understand. Problems, equations, motives. She wants to know the _why_ behind everything, but he's not certain he can give it to her this time.

But after all he's done, he owes her an attempt.

Slowly, he speaks, voice gruff with emotion. “I am a Saiyan,” he begins. He waits for her to scoff, or roll her eyes at the proclamation she's heard a thousand and one times, but she does nothing, just watches him with curiosity and hurt and a need to know.

“And Saiyans… We destroy. It is in my blood. I am a warrior, born and bred to lead my people into battle. To conquer. Devastate. I-” he pulls his hand away suddenly, holding them before him, staring at his palms, feeling the skin tingle and the blood beneath _burn_.

“I can hear it,” he whispers, broken, “This voice. It screams at me. Tells me to do what I was born to do. To fight, to maim, to kill. I have thought of a thousand ways to kill everyone in this house,” he admits, trying to ignore the slight, sharp intake of breath beside him. He shuts his eyes, trying to drown out everything but his words. “I don't want to destroy my home. I am content here. But my blood burns with this desire I cannot control. My hands itch to hurt. I thought I had subdued the desires, but I was wrong. And today- I was weak.”

Silence follows. He won't- can't- look at Bulma. The shame he feels is too great.

Then her hand rests on his, cool and clammy, and he's pulled from the depths.

“Why did you never tell me?”

Vegeta shrugs. “I didn't know how.”

“You've been unhappy all this time,” she whispers, “And I never even suspected.”

He looks at her then. “I am not... unhappy,” he says, surprised by the truth of the words. “You are my mate. And you are-” he is not good with sentiment. But he struggles through the awkwardness of it, determined to tell Bulma how he feels, even if he isn't certain of the terms himself.

“You are important,” he chooses, but it doesn't feel enough. “You are good. A fine wife. I…” He sighs and stops.

Her hand rests gently on his cheek, and he sinks into the touch, desperate for the feeling of her skin to ground him back into reality. Back into a time before he made the worst choice of his life. He can never take it back, and he knows he will spend the rest of his life atoning for something he can't fully control.

“Do you feel it now?” She asks. He nods.

“Even after rejecting it, I can feel a part of myself… Longing for destruction. Violence for the sake of it.”

He hates this part of himself. He hates himself. He's never truly felt like he is enough, and now he resents all the expectations that have been placed upon him, whether by his people or by himself. He hates who he is, and the urge to claw at his skin to rip out this part of his being is nearly overwhelming. He clenches his fists, nails biting through the material of his gloves so that it hurts, and the pain, even when self-inflicted, is enough to sate the burning need- if only for a moment.

“You're fighting it now, aren't you?”

He nods.

“You've been fighting it since Cell.”

Again he nods. She's putting the pieces together for them both, and it's best to just let her work.

“Have-” she stops and swallows, “Have you ever wanted to hurt me? Beyond just thinking of what you could do? Have you ever really _wanted_ to hurt me?”

He can't count the times he's left because he feels the urge to destroy the closest thing to him- her. He nods.

She shocks him to his core when she lifts his hand in her smaller one and places it at the base of her throat.

“Then hurt me.”

He jerks away from her instinctively, putting several feet of distance between them in an instant.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” He all but shouts.

Bulma follows him, stands before him with her chin held high. “If you have this thing in you that needs to hurt,” she says, “I'd rather you get it out in here.” She gestures to the bed, and he's left utterly speechless.

“There's a type of sex,” she explains, “That's all about pain. Hurting the other. If you're Saiyan blood is telling you to do something, I'd rather you do it here with me where we can manage it together, than to wait another seven years for you to lose your shit and nearly destroy the world again.”

“I can't do that. I would _kill_ you.” And it’s true. Vegeta knows his own strength; knows a hard enough blow would kill her instantly. He is somewhat relieved when his instincts recoil at such a thought.

“Oh, we can fix that,” Bulma says with a careless shrug. “I’ve got this nifty invention I’ve been working on, for completely unrelated purposes, but it might work well here. Besides, I’m giving you permission. We’ll establish a safe word, and when you feel this-” she gestures between them- “Whatever it is, then you'll hurt me in here. If it's too much, I'll use the word and you stop.”

“And if I _can't?”_

Bulma shrugs, “Then I guess I better call Korin and stock up on senzu beans.”

Vegeta stares at her as if she were mad. Perhaps she is.

“Why on earth would you do this?” He asks, “Why would you be so foolish as to put yourself at risk to appease this…thing in me?”

“Because I don't want you to suffer,” Bulma replies, “Because I love you. And if this helps, even a little, then I think it's worth a few bruises.”

His gaze travels from her throat to his hands, and he can't help but ponder how good it would feel to squeeze her windpipes, watch her gasp for breath. He blinks and looks up, wide-eyed and afraid, and shakes his head.

“I…” He stops. If he rejects this, then what other option is there for him? He can't go through the torment any longer. He needs to hurt something. It's in his blood.

“I want to think about it.”

Bulma nods and steps closer, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I'll support you no matter what,” she says, “But please. Don't shut me out. That's what hurts the most.”

It's no simple thing she's just asked of him, but for her, he’ll try.

** *** **

He dwells on the subject for a couple days. In the meantime, things begin to settle at Capsule Corp. and return to the strange semblance of normalcy that can only accompany Bulma. Vegeta watches her as she goes about her routine, and every time she looks at him he can't help but hear the pounding of war drums in his head; how lovely it would sound in tandem with her cries of pain.

He asks her what she expects of him after the third day and they have a long discussion about what she expects and what he would do- if he agrees.

She explains it, having apparently done the research, and tells him that as far as he's told her, he has this need to inflict damage.

“You certainly can't blast me with ki’s,” she tells him as they sit in her lab and she snaps two metallic cuffs around his wrists. “But you can hit. These absorb your energy and basically leave you powerless. That way you can let loose and hit as hard as you want. But the cuffs will absorb the brunt of the damage you inflict. But don’t worry. I’ll still feel it if you give me a slap.”

He holds up a hand and tries to produce a ki blast. He can still feel the extent of his power, but nothing is produced. He still feels strong, and he turns and punches a bot that’s on a nearby repair table. It falls over, but is otherwise undamaged. As if someone incredibly weaker had struck it.

He glances at Bulma, who looks proud of her accomplishment, and his mind instantly imagines a scenario where he smacks that smirk off her face. He doesn't know how something can both repulse and excite him. At war with himself, he almost misses her next words.

“You can choke, slap, bite. Pin me down. Scratching might be okay, too.”

He can almost hear the sound of her bones snapping beneath the pressure of his grip. His hands flex.

“And we do this while engaging in sex?”

“Basically,” Bulma agrees. “We combine the pain you feel driven to inflict with the pleasure of sex so that it’s not strictly an unpleasant experience for me and hopefully things will work so that you can still be a Saiyan without anyone else having to suffer for it.”

It's a harsh way to phrase it, but the reality is far harsher.

Vegeta can't yet reconcile the two sides of him that are at war and tells Bulma he needs to think some more.

He refuses to acknowledge it as running.

Finally, a week and a half of torment passes and he can no longer stand the tugging between the side that is content with what he has and the side that longs for what was. How can he have both and stay sane?

He knows he cannot forsake one half; he's tried and found the result to be lonely and dark and unfulfilling.

So he comes to her thirteen days after Buu’s defeat and asks her what safe word she recommends.

Ever the planner, Bulma pulls a piece of paper out of her night stand and supplies him with a list of contenders.

He reads down the list, brow arching at some of the choices.

_Piñata_

_Sauerkraut_

_Monotheism_

_Worcestershire_

_Kakarot_

He blinks up at the last one. “Kakarot?”

Bulma shrugs, biting her lip to hold back a laugh. “It's supposed to be a word neither of us would ever think to genuinely use during sex. And I figured it I started yelling out Goku’s name during the act it'd be so unappealing you'd be forced to stop.”

He _hates_ the logic behind that choice, if only because it's so accurate.

“I can't believe I'm doing this.”

“You don't have to pick that one. I just added it, well mostly because I wanted to see the look on your face- totally worth it, by the way- and because yeah. It's a sure fire way to stop you.”

“It might make me angrier.”

“The point of this is to give you pleasure,” she reasons, “Even if it's unconventional. I doubt, as possessive and competitive as you are, you'd keep going if I was suddenly shouting another man’s name.”

She's thought it through.

“Fuck.”

“That’s the plan. Rather roughly, I might add.”

He tosses the paper to one side, and flops down onto the bed with little grace. “You're sure about this?”

“I wouldn't have offered if I didn't want to help.”

“But you get nothing out of it.”

She makes a face. “Well, that's not entirely true.”

He turns, props himself on his elbow to face her. “You _want_ to be hurt?”

Bulma rolls her eyes and leans forward on the bed, lowering herself to kiss the corner of Vegeta’s lips. “What I _want_ is for you to be happy.”

No one has ever cared about his happiness. He's not even sure he could describe what would make him happy. Bulma makes him happy, he thinks. He doesn't know if that's what this is. He's so used to equating such things with weakness that he isn't certain if what he's feeling is a good thing or not. Not when it goes against his very core.

Warriors don't care.

Saiyans don't care.

The Prince of all Saiyans _especially_ does not care.

But then, he's barely a prince, and there are days when he feels as weak and as human as the rest of Bulma’s association. And at any rate, who’s going to stop him?

 _Kakarot_ , he thinks to himself, and he doesn't know if he's invoking the man's name, or its new-founded meaning.

“You are good,” he says softly. “Too good for me.”

She frowns at that, and moves so that she can push him on his back. She reaches back into the drawer and pulls out the cuffs then moves to straddle his thighs and settles above him. “None of that,” she chides. “Now I'm sitting on you, _above you_. What are you going to do about it?” She holds out the cuffs. Waiting.

 _S_ omething deep and primal whispers to him, and it feels almost right when he takes the cuffs from her and slips them on. He doesn’t feel any different, just more certain as he flips her over, pinning her with his legs as his hand wraps around her throat, low enough to not crush her windpipes but still provide him the sensation of stripping her of her sensibilities.

“I'm going to hurt you.”

She smirks through the pain, and he can already feel her struggling to take a breath. “Good.”

Pinned beneath his weight, Bulma is completely at his mercy. Sex has always been a careful give and take between them, he always aware of his ability to harm her without even trying. But now he is free to be as careless as he wishes, and as the understanding settles that he intends to harm her tonight, he feels a thrill of delight and panic rush through him. He's been with her countless times before, something about this feels different.

Perhaps it is. So much has happened between them in a short amount of time. And he wants to ensure that he does this right. That by hurting her, he's protecting her. That by offering herself up for a sacrifice she never should have to make, she's saving them. Pain and pleasure, working in tandem for the good of all.

Leaning forward, he breathes her in, and his Saiyan Pride sings at the whiff of fear he senses.

“You're afraid.”

She nods as best she can, because she _is_ afraid, though she knows she is safe in his hands. This is new and newness evokes fear of the unknown. Her heart is racing and her face is going pale.

He loves it.

“You reek of fear,” he whispers, and it's only half true. And if she does become truly frightful, well, that's what the word is for. But he also senses her anticipation and in his lust for dominance he can easily allow a loose interpretation of feelings if it satisfies the monster inside him.

His grip tightens ever so slightly. “Don't make a sound.”

He trails his nose over her cheek, down her jaw, toward her neck. Bulma knows what is about to happen and she stiffens instinctively, then forces herself to relax, silent.

His teeth skim over her flesh, then he bites, hard.

Bulma gasps, and Vegeta relishes the feeling of her jerking against him suddenly. He growls and moves to the other side, and bites again. This time Bulma makes a sound and quick as lightning, Vegeta’s hand is cupping her jaw in his, roughly, making her lips pucker as he forces her to look at him.

“What did I say?” He snaps. “Shut up.”

He lets her go, as roughly as he grabbed her, and lets his hands trail over her, fingernails scratching. The pain is dulled by her clothes but it's still enough to make her squirm under him.

He reaches her thighs, squeezing hard as he runs his hands over her, and Bulma bites her lip to keep from making another noise. He squeezes hard enough that she yells anyway, and is promptly rewarded with a hard smack across the face.

The cuffs protect her from his true strength, but she still reels from the sensation, and when she refocuses on him, Vegeta is glaring at her. “You will obey me,” he hisses, “I am the Prince of All Saiyans, and I will not tolerate your insolence. Now shut up.”

He pauses then, waits for her to say the word to end things, but she stays silent, looking up at him with determination and desire. Surely she can't enjoy this?

He stops. Asks her. She stays silent and he demands she answer him.

“I enjoy making you happy,” she replies breathlessly. “I'm not fragile. I can handle it.”

 _She is fragile_ , he thinks bitterly, even as he admires the way her cheek has swollen and started to bruise. _She would be so easy to break._

It's that thought that both makes him tense and pushes him to continue. He's at war with himself as much as ever. He's always at war, battling some foe, whether seen or unseen.

It's that unending fight that's driven them here, to a moment in time where he's straddling his wife, hitting her. Because she told him he could. Because this is who he is.

When he doesn't continue, Bulma sits up, letting her hands rest on his cheeks. “Okay. Pause. Kakarot. Talk to me.”

He shakes his head, the movement stifled from her hands. “I hurt you.”

“It stings, yeah,” she admits, “But I'm fine.” At his silence, she presses. “How did it feel?”

He looks at her, puzzled. “When you hit me. Obviously, as my husband you're a little freaked. But how does Vegeta the Saiyan Warrior Prince feel?”

He hesitates. Then, “It felt… good.”

“So what's the issue?” She wants him to dig deep, to discover his feelings and name them. She's helped him do it before, but he's never become adept at it. Though he does acknowledge that giving his emotions a name helps him understand why he feels the way he does.

“I fear that one day, a simple smack won't be enough,” he says after several long miners of thought. “Because maybe someday it won't be quite as satisfying.”

“A valid concern,” Bulma agrees. “But let me pose another question: is doing anything at all, even a little, better than holding yourself back entirely?”

He considers it. Recalls recent events and thinks that perhaps, as usual, she's right. If he needs to let out some frustration, beat something up for the hell of it, he can go to the gravity chamber. But when this thing in him awakens, calls for destruction and blood, demands he dominate and conquer, he can indulge a little. He can't deny he likes seeing her beneath him, likes knowing that she can't escape. She has power to stop him, agreed upon between them, but until that word slips from her lips, she is trapped, _his_ , to do with as he wishes.

And he wishes for many things. Many of them dark and unnamed.

She smiles at him, kisses him gently, understanding. “I think that's enough for now,” she says when she pulls away. “If you want, we can always try again. This is new. And we both need to come to terms with it.”

Vegeta nods, and lets his hand trail up to her cheek. She winces but let's him continue, and he can't help but feel pride at the fact that he did this to her.

“I'll get you a senzu tomorrow,” he offers, “But for now, ice.”

He moves away from her, to go downstairs to retrieve ice.

“In a towel, please,” she requests. He obliges.

Later, as they sleep, the ice long melted, Vegeta lays on his back and stares at the ceiling, the memory of what they'd done at the forefront of his mind. When he thinks back on it, it isn't with guilt or shame. It's with surprise that as he reflects back on it all, he finds himself thinking of how he wants to do it again.

He glances at Bulma, who is sound asleep, and frowns. He's going to have to figure out a way to justify all the senzu beans he's going to need.

** *** **

He tells Korin he needs some for training, and that Bulma wants to run some tests on others, and the cat eyes him suspiciously before handing over a bag with a sigh.

“Use them wisely,” Korin cautions, “We are in short supply.”

“I assure you they are for a good cause.”

“Protecting the earth is more than good,” Korin agrees, “But take care.”

Vegeta doesn't correct him, because he’s not _really_ wrong, and leaves.

When Bulma awakens, he hands one to her without comment. She holds it instead, running a hand through her wild, sleep-mussed hair. “How many did he give you?”

Vegeta peers inside the back. “Fifteen. Counting that one.”

She nods then holds it out to him. When he looks aghast, she explains, “Better save it for when I really need it,” she says, “I barely feel it.”

“Trunks will wonder what happened.”

“And Trunks will be told that his mother tripped and fell. Not very dignifying, but he'll buy it.”

Vegeta doesn't argue. He's trusted her this far; he's not going to question her now, and puts the bean back in the bag, then places it in the drawer on his nightstand.

“So since you got that many, shall I assume you want to try again?”

He could say no, and let himself fight this off himself. But Bulma knows now, knows the signs and will be watching him if he turns her down. She'll know if he's struggling and she'll want to help and she'll be hurt that he didn't trust her.

And that's the kicker. The one underlying truth to all of this. Regardless of how or why, Vegeta trusts her.

So he answers,’”Yes.”

When she smiles and whispers, “Good,” he wonders how he could have ever doubted her.

** *** **

The second time comes about a week later. The gnawing and grating of his Saiyan blood is not a constantly all-consuming thing, but it's ever present, as much a part of him as breathing, blinking, the beat of his heart.

It crawls through his veins and settles in his gut, and he feels his fingers tingle with the need to _grip_ , to _hurt._

So he seeks her out, a predator on the prowl, but when he finds her she's hardly prey.

She sees the look in his eyes and understands instantly. He’s already wearing the cuffs and upon seeing that he came prepared she nods her approval. Then he's upon her, gripping her forearms in his hands tight enough to sting. She gasps as he presses against her, the metal of her workbench digging into her back.

“What do you want?” She asks as one hand moves to grip her waist, squeezing so hard that it takes her breath away.

“You.”

Her grin is wicked. “You can be a little more specific than that.”

He glares. “Silence.”

She nods and lets him guide her to their room.

This time he's not so hesitant. He scratches and squeezes, smacks and hits. She takes it all in stride, staying quiet as he tells her how much he wants to hurt her. He mixes breathless kisses with painful bites, and rips away her clothing to assault the rest of her, and they're both more than a little surprised at how wet she is when he slides into her.

He doesn't worry about her pleasure; she's made it clear this is for him and so he thrusts in and out of her roughly, one hand coming up to choke her the way he did before. He's careful even as he's rough, ever conscious of each mark he places upon her, and lets himself revel in the bright colors peppering his wife's skin as he dominates her, treats her like the prey she ought to be. She gasps and groans in pain and cries, and he revels in the tears, licking them up then hitting her again for being so weak.

He tells her to beg him to stop and she does, hoarse pleas happily ignored. He pulls out and flips her onto her stomach, then is in her again, hair gripped painfully in his hand as he demands she beg for the mercy he will not give her.

And when he comes, it's never been quite so satisfying, seeing her look so utterly defeated.

He falls to his side, breathless, the siren song in the back of his mind silent for the first time in a long time. Bulma groans as she shifts to curl into his side. Vegeta moves to grab the senzu beans but her hand weakly lifts to catch his own.

“Just a second,” she whispers, and it's then that he truly takes stock of all he's done to her.

She's all but battered, bruised all over, throat red from his grip. He can still make out his handprint.

“You're in pain,” he says, and reaches over anyway, pulling out the bag of senzu beans and pressing it to her lips. With a lazy roll of her eyes, she takes one and bites it in half, chewing slowly and with pain. In a matter of minutes the bruises have mostly faded and she's no longer on the brink of exhaustion.

She pushes him down and resumes her plan of curling against him. “How do you feel?”

He thinks. All is quiet, for the moment. He feels at ease, calm. He knows it won't last, but then, maybe that's okay.

“Better,” is all he tells her. He knows that he owes her so much more, and someday he'll be able to voice these feelings, but for now he simply trusts that she understands. She's skilled in that regard.

“Did it help?”

“Yes.”

“It's strange, I'm not going to lie. But-”

He looks at her. “But?”

Her cheeks are red, and this time his hand isn't what put the color there. “I kinda liked it.”

Now his cheeks are red. “Vulgar woman.”

“If you're still embarrassed by that fact, then I fear you're beyond help.”

“I'm not embarrassed,” he replies with a huff.

“Okay.”

“I'm not.”

“Sure.”

“Don't make me hurt you."

With a laugh, she moves to lay over his chest. “Is that a promise?” She winks and laughs at his wide-eyed reaction, then sobers. “But you're okay now?”

“I should be asking after you.”

“You gave me a senzu. I'm good.”

“But are you okay?”

“If I'm ever not, you'll know. I promise. I volunteered for this, remember? I understood what it would mean before I ever made the suggestion. This is for _you.”_ She smirked, “Besides, I still managed to get off, so. You know.” She shrugs with a lazy elegance and resumes resting against his chest.

He rolls his eyes and wraps an arm around her, protective and comforting. She sighs and he settles against her, wondering how he could have ever forsaken her when she is everything he's ever needed.

** *** **

It becomes routine. Vegeta wonders if this fact should bother him, but in the seven months since he accepted the offer of power and felt the beautiful hollowness of such a promise, he's taken Bulma to his bed numerous times with the intent to leave her broken and black and blue- his two favorite colors.

Bulma takes it all in stride and grows to look forward to when he grabs her unexpectedly and tells her how much he wants to hurt her. She's only used _the word_ once, when he'd gotten a little carried away. She'd done it more for his sake than hers, and afterward they'd had another long talk in which she guided him through a maze of emotions until he figured out the puzzle of his own mind.

She's not used it since. In fact, he thinks she likes their situation almost as much as he does.

No one suspects. Life carries on and things remain calm. He continues to train, sometimes with Kakarot or his son but mostly alone, and when the feeling rises up in him to _conquer_ , he finds Bulma, and even if she's not in the mood, she lets him choke her, whisper all the gory, painful things he wants to do to her. It doesn't always end in sex, but then again, their sex doesn't always contain bruises and pain. But it always ends with Vegeta holding her close to him, swearing to protect her from the very cruelty he’s promised to thrust upon her.

“I love you,” she whispers, and though he can’t say it back just yet, he holds her close and breathes her in and wonders how this woman can see him for all that he is and confidently say such a thing.

He wonders the same thing a week later in between proclamations of how he’ll tear her apart, hand wrapped around her throat and a bruise on her lip from here he bit her too hard, and she disobeys his command and comes with a hoarse cry, earning her another smack followed by the sincerest of kisses.

She refuses the senzu for a good hour, telling him she relishes the sting and makes him kiss her until the pain become intolerable.

A month passes before he feels it again. Bulma is out of town for the weekend for work, and it's the first time that he's not had the option to deal with the call as soon as it begins whispering.

He trains, but it doesn't help. He tries self-pleasure but it's hollow at best and not anywhere comparable to the feeling of Bulma beneath him, trembling weakly from exhaustion as he takes and takes and takes, her cries the fuel that keep him going.

He's upon her almost the moment she enters the house. No one else is home; Vegeta had sent Trunks to spar with Goten, and the Briefs’ are out on a small vacation. She knows this as well as he, and so she drops her luggage willingly when he shoves her into the wall.

“I don't like to be kept waiting,” he snaps, grabbing her wrists and squeezing them tight. She sees the cuffs are in place and nods.

“I'm sorry.”

“Shut up.” He presses his nose to her neck, inhales. He knows she's been around other people; he can smell where she's been seated next to them, in meetings all day, the lightest scent rubbed off on her clothing. It doesn’t bother him, not really, but there’s a small, possessive part of him that wants her to only carry his scent. “You smell of others.”

“Yes.”

He presses against her and her head knocks back from the force of his push. “You are _mine_.”

“Nothing happened.”

“I don't care,” he snaps, “I only want _my_ scent on you.”

She tries to shove him away, a fruitless endeavor even if she'd actually tried. “Please don't hurt me.”

“I will do what I want with you, whore.”

She trembles, and Vegeta can smell her arousal. He grips her chin and forces her to look at him. “Look at you,” he sneers, “Wet from being called such a derogatory name. You _like_ being my whore, don't you?”

She shakes her head as frantically as he’ll allow.

“You do. I can smell it. You're a filthy creature who needs to be put in her place.”

“No.”

He pulls her by her hair, and forces her upstairs. “You don't get a say.”

She walks, wobbly on her heels, and when she reaches the top of the stairs he grabs her and slams her into that wall, causing her breath to escape her harshly at the contact. The photo hanging to their left rattles.

He stares at her, then kisses her hard, biting and bruising. Bulma accepts it, sighing without meaning to, and earns a backhand across her cheek. “Go.”

She stumbles to their room and Vegeta pushes her onto the bed. She falls face first and before she can adjust to get comfortable, he’s over her, ripping her clothing away with barely any effort. “Silence,” he says as he rips away her underwear, but leaves the heels in place. He strips and settles over her, hand pressed hard on her mouth.

Without another word he shoves into her, and groans at the sensation. He thrusts without care and beneath him Bulma is helpless but to be moved by the force of him. She only has to bite his middle finger for him to release her mouth so she can end this, but she bites her lip instead, groaning as his other hand scratches her back, leaving rows of bright red in their wake.

He wants to see more red.

It's a startling revelation, and he stops suddenly, _the word_ on his lips. Bulma can tell something’s happened and she tries to glance over her shoulder at him. He slides out of her and pushes her silently onto her back. She's breathing heavily, cheek purple, but she waits, either for him to stop or continue, at his pleasure.

Eventually he sits back on his heels and stares down at her.

“I want to see you bleed,” he whispers, astonished at his own words. Bulma's eyes widen slightly, not in fear but in surprise.

He waits for her to end this. In all their talks, this had never come up. Hadn't even been a thought until now. She’s certainly bled a little during their encounters. Not much, just the result of a smack placed just right, but the small string of blood is usually dried before they finish.

But he wants _blood_. He wants to rip her open and watch the red flow.

He doesn't think he can forgive himself for this one. To make her bleed is utterly unacceptable. He's bled plenty in his life. This isn't a matter of a few well-managed smacks and properly placed chokes. This is something that could _scar_ , and he's done enough of that to last a lifetime.

But he waits for her response. He's spoken, and despite this all being about him taking charge, Bulma's always been the one in control.

He watches as she worries her lip, and he thinks she's thinking. Then his eyes widen as she winces a little and pouts, her bruised lip red with the smallest puddle of blood.

His heart pounds, the war drums in his head, and his Saiyan heritage sings in triumph at the sight of the small spec of red. He reaches out and smears it with his thumb, staining her with her own blood.

It's the ultimate sacrifice: the spilling of blood. And she's done it for him.

She's never looked more regal than when she's bloodied and bruised beneath him, her pain decorating her in the colors that make up her queenship.

He laughs then, not the laugh of a bloodthirsty Saiyan, but of a man who can finally combine his two halves to make a whole. She bleeds for him, because _she_ wants to. She’s accepted this part of him from the beginning, but now she is telling him that she embraces it. She embraces him. All of him. And because she does, so can he.

“I love you,” he tells her, surprised at the ease in which the words spill from his lips, then kisses her hard, and her blood is the sweetest nectar he's ever known.

** *** **

It gets a little better, in time.

He doesn't need it as frequently as before, but he still needs it. He will always be Saiyan, and that call, the siren song and war drums will always play within him. But he knows he need not fear that call any more. He can be himself, and he can be a husband, father, _friend._ He is as much those things as he is a first-class warrior. And he will always be ready to fight, should the need arise. But until then, he will simply be Vegeta, and he finds himself, oddly, content.

But he _does_ feel that desire, sometimes, the need to bring suffering and harm and pain as he did when he was a Prince in his prime. So he goes to her and she lets him hurts her.

And in the pain that is given and received, they both find freedom.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yes. Kakarot is their safe word. It made me laugh, at least. 
> 
> Other than that, I don't know.


End file.
